


i'll only hurt you if you let me.

by bottlefame_brewglory



Category: The Blacklist (US TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Heartbreak, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, One Shot, Reconciliation, Slow Burn, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 05:49:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18382247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bottlefame_brewglory/pseuds/bottlefame_brewglory
Summary: A twitch of his fingers, the minute muscles flexing with agitation, that is how it starts. His breathing changes pace, from the soft steady rest of sleep to sharp gasps, chest bellowing with anxiety. The murmuring is next, a name gritted out between clenched teeth, an animalistic whine, a cry of pain.“Lizzie.”





	i'll only hurt you if you let me.

**Author's Note:**

> “Don't you know I'm no good for you,  
> I've learned to lose you, can't afford to,  
> Tore my shirt to stop you bleedin',  
> But nothin' ever stops you leavin'.” – when the party’s over, Billie Eilish
> 
>  
> 
> I don't have even the faintest clue of when this fic actually takes place. I just know that the daddygate was never a thing and Tom isn't around. Hope you enjoy the read!

_29th of March, 4.55am_

A twitch of his fingers, the minute muscles flexing with agitation, that is how it starts. His breathing changes pace, from the soft steady rest of sleep to sharp gasps, chest bellowing with anxiety. The murmuring is next, a name gritted out between clenched teeth, an animalistic whine, a cry of _pain_.

“ _Lizzie_.”

It is guttural, _rough_ , once a prayer and now a _plea_ , whimpered into the darkness of the night, into the empty room with a single occupant. The sheets twist around him, a pillow bunching beneath the ferocious grip of his fist, muscles tense and _coiled_.

With a snap, a gasp, his eyes are once more open, tears leaking, gathering at the corners to spill down the ruddy skin of his cheeks. Sweat beads over his upper lip, his forehead, the base of his neck. The adrenaline is still working its way through his system, bloodstream coating his muscles with tension, sluicing away any form of relaxation, with vivid imagery and nauseating anxiety.

It is like this he wakes most nights, torn from his rest with a shout, and the image of Lizzie, cold and still, blazing through his consciousness. He will lay with his sheets tangled around him, certain he is able to feel the cooling softness of her flesh beneath his fingertips, the press of his lips against her forehead, her eyelids, until he is driven from his sweat-soaked cacoon to be standing, _trembling_ , in his room of choice for the evening. By this time, his throat is aching, and his insides _itching_ , for the smooth burn of scotch.

In his nightmares, Lizzie dying is no hoax, in his nightmares, Lizzie dies and dies and _dies_.

And there he will sit, on the corner of his bed, crystal tumbler clasped loosely between his grasp. Hunched over with his forearms pressed to his knees, the cool evening air ghosts over the tarnished, _ropey_ , flesh of his back.

Remorse will run slick and oily through the thin casing of his veins, will turn to tar in his arteries. If it is early into the morning, if the sun is cracking the horizon and spilling over the darkened landscape, if the world is waking, Dembe will come to him, and offer words of comfort, his hand heavy and solid on Red’s bare shoulder, his soul bleeding with compassion.

It is of no use, they are both aware. The guilt that runs rampant through Raymond, the responsibility he feels, mere words can not salve the burns that the emotion leaves behind. But some mornings, when Dembe’s words are particularly soft, when the sunrise is particularly beautiful and chips away at the iron exterior of the concierge of crime, Red will reach across his body, and clutch at Dembe’s hand, his breathing steadying, and something like peace worming its way into his fragmented being.

He blames himself, always, he blames himself.

.

_30th of March, 12.26am_

The door is bolted, solid, unyielding, and then _splitting_ beneath the ferocity of Dembe’s kick, bouncing on its hinges, biting into the soft painted plaster and leaving an indention behind, a puff of dust in the darkness, a sprinkling of white.

Red can hear her before he sees her, can hear her soft gasps, the call of his name, desperate and _low_ , clawing its way up her throat with difficulty, as if she can’t _breathe_. It is familiar, the adrenaline that cascades around him, tingles across his flesh, causes his grip on his weapon to tighten.

This is the situation that plagues him, tears him from slumber, soaks him with sweat.

He has been here before.

Light bathes the scene as Dembe flicks a switch, highlights the struggle; an over turned chair here, a smashed vase and crystal glittering the floor there, the flowers it had held bruised and torn upon the timber. And Lizzie lay amongst it, a river of crimson etching its way towards a decorative rug, staining the beige wool with _red_. Her face is tilted towards the door, her hair tangled around her shoulders, caught in the delicate creases of her neck. The blue of her eyes, the usual icy, _fiery_ gaze of her irises, is glazed with agony. She is fighting, _battling_ to remain conscious, arms wrapped around her middle, hot and dark liquid seeping from between her fingertips.

The assailants are gone, having fled into the city, cowards melding into the cover of darkness.

They are alone.

Red is dropping to his knees, ignoring the skin that splits beneath his descent, the purple that will no doubt form there in the coming hours. Shoving his pistol into the back of his trousers, he reaches for her, his hands shaking, _trembling_ , hovering above her prone body, as if unwilling to touch her.

“Lizzie,” he murmurs, whispers, something distraught and desperate lodged in his throat, “Sweetheart, move your hands, I need to staunch the bleeding.”

Comprehension is beyond her, and she only gives an anguished whimper as he gently guides her arms to her sides, his palms pulling away slick with blood. The apologises that spill from between his lips are almost as agonised, croaking and sorrowful, as he scoots closer to her on his knees.

Distantly he can hear Dembe scouring the apartment, checking each and every room, a mobile pressed between his cheek and shoulder as he urgently orders down the line, calling forth Red’s resources, pulling at strings, acquiring the medical expertise to arrive at the doorway in minutes.

Without raising his gaze from Liz’s suffering features, her mouth open in a silent cry, eyes scrunched closed, he savagely tears at the cotton of his dress-shirt, Mother of Pearl buttons tumble to the floor, scattering around them. He bunches the material in his shaking grasp, presses it firmly to the gaping wound etched into her abdomen and bites his tongue to stop the tears spilling from his eyes as she groans in torment, bends so his forehead is pressed to her own and utters his apologies, fearful of the way she doesn’t writhe away from him, as if too weak to attempt to escape the pain.

“I’m sorry,” he utters, voice hoarse, “Lizzie, _I’m sorry_.”

Dembe arrives by his right shoulder, abruptly shoving Red to the side and grasping the cotton, _a crimson rag_. He applies pressure, as if realising Red himself isn’t capable of pressing heavily enough upon her wound, as if he couldn’t bring himself to elicit the throaty scream that wracks through her vulnerable frame. Reddington quickly grabs at her face, feels the bile rise in his throat at the way he smears her porcelain features with blood, wipes hastily at the tears that tumble from her clenched eyelids.

“How far away are the medics?” He snarls at Dembe, his tone at odds with the way he delicately brushes the tendrils of tresses behind Lizzie’s ears, fingertips skating along her jawline.

But before Dembe can answer, before his deep timbre of a voice can reassure the both of them, ensure Raymond that they are only moments away, that Elizabeth will survive, her voice is splitting the air, causing Reddington to fall deathly still, the tick below his left eye jerking to life, the rest of his features crumpling with sorrow, eyes becoming red-rimmed.

“ _Red_.”

It’s coughed, _wet_ , the very word, his _namesake_ , coating her teeth, staining the white. It is a plea, and with her eyes cracking open, with the ocean-blue gaze blaring into his own, hazed with terror and pain, Red can only grip at her hand, swallow down the all-consuming dread that is clambering up his throat like a demon spilling from Hell.

He can see it in her expression, the way she weakly clings to his hand, the way she fights to keep her eyes open, lips permanently parted as she wheezes oxygen into her deprived lungs. Elizbeth Keen stares at him, tears brimming her eyes, and knows that she is dying.

Elizabeth Keen stares at him and expects him to _save her_.

This time, it is real.

.

_30th of March, 12.32am_

The flickering of the blue and red, the colour flashing across the slick asphalt, it shudders Reddington to a standstill. Lizzie is cradled in his arms, her forehead pressed to his chest, medics swarming around him, their gloved hands hovering over her, their voices urgent as they attempt to take vitals, attempt to extricate her from Red’s grip as he stares, dead-eyed, at the ambulance parked on the vacant street.

“No,” he murmurs, as one of their hands wrap around Lizzie’s shoulders, making her whine in pain, and then, a bellow, a _snarl_ , savage and dangerous, “ _No!_ ”

Rain drifts from the Heavens, sprinkles around them, mists their clothing, clings to them with the damp. The paramedics fall still, staring at him, eyes wide and confused, hesitant to provoke him further, each and every member of the medic team aware of the carnage and ruin Red can create.

He can’t _breathe_ , Lizzie is in his grasp, clasped to his chest and _bleeding out_ , and Red can’t breathe, he can’t move. Warmth seeps against his torso, Lizzie’s breathing becomes more rapid, and the great Raymond Reddington _can’t move_. Terror has him paralysed, his mind _screaming_ and his body still, breath torn from too constricted lungs, muscles clenched.

_Too familiar, too familiar_.

Around and around _and around_ the red and blue flashes, his eyes glued to the lights like a beacon.

Distantly, as if muted, spoken through water, he hears,

_Sir, I believe you’re having a panic attack_.

Here in his arms, Lizzie’s temperature begins to plummet, Lizzie begins to _die_.

And then Dembe is stepping forwards, his voice firm and commanding to the bewildered medical staff surrounding them, movements gentle and steady as he scoops Lizzie out of Reddington’s frozen grasp, begins moving towards the sleek black sedan. His eyes graze the bloom of red that has blossomed across the pristine white of Reddington’s torn shirt.

“We will follow you to the warehouse.”

A foolish member of the team goes to argue, their protest harsh and indignant through the night, quickly falling silent as Dembe turns on them, a looming beast of a man letting loose a _roar_.

“ _We will follow!_ ” Followed by an urgent, snarling, “ _Raymond, come!_ Elizabeth needs you.”

It snaps Red out of his panic, out of his _terror_ , the team buzzing back to life around him, slamming doors as they pile back into the ambulance and tear off down the street, sirens silent even as the lights still illuminate the street, paint colour throughout the night. He stumbles towards the vehicle. The scratchy, cheap fabric of Ressler’s FBI jacket is a phantom draped across his shoulders as he grasps at the door handle, thankful his legs hold his weight as he drags himself into the car, Dembe on the opposite side, angling Lizzie so that her head rests in Red’s lap.

“Apply pressure here, Raymond,” he murmurs, quiet now, but still firm, still _iron_ in his determination, “We have to stop the bleeding, so press _hard_.”

And with that, a slammed door and the car cranking its ignition, they are tearing off down the street, chasing those red and blue lights like bloodhounds with a scent.

Lizzie has fallen silent now, and Red’s arm _aches_ with the burden of preventing her blood from pumping between her flesh, with each weakening beat of her heart. It’s dripping over the leather now, smearing as they swerve around corners, and Red can barely contain the grief that is threatening to consume.

“Lizzie, _please_ , stay here, stay with me,” it’s hoarse and it’s desperate, choked with tears, “Lizzie, you have to _stay_.”

.

29th of March, 11.17pm.

The tinkle of champagne glasses, the soft murmur of chatter, music crooning amongst the crowd, the heat almost stifling, makes for a typical charity gala. Liz stares out amongst the throng of dignitaries with a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. A drink is twirled between her fingertips, the bubbles of the champagne bursting upon her tongue, tangy and sweet.

Aching, she shifts on the balls of her feet, leans slightly against the bar for relief, a borderline irritated sigh gusting from her nose as her high-heels wobble beneath her weight. The material of her dress clings to her, drapes from her knees to fall around her ankles, a startling red that she couldn’t help but grin at. She had come home from the Post Office to find the article draped across the crisp linen of her bed.

Reddington stands across from her, tuxedo snug and fitting against his figure, bowtie straight, and features _beaming_. He is enjoying himself, here, amongst these luminaries, united for the same cause. There is a glint to the jade of his eyes, the grin splitting his features positively _radiant_. She can hear the deep timbre of his voice, the vibrance of his laughter as it carries across the crowd, as he draws more people in, his mood infectious. There is something _electrifying_ about him, _charismatic_ , that garners attention and _holds it_.

A jolt ripples through her, spikes her adrenaline, when his eyes jump to meet hers, when he offers her a slight tilt of his head, a knowing smile. Raising her glass, she returns the smirk, takes a sip of champagne and glances away, feeling heat creep up the delicate flesh of her throat.

He keeps his distance from her, remains on his side of the ballroom, continues to entertain the throngs of people that have joined his circle. Previously, in their relationship, had she been caught watching him from afar, he would have approached her, strode over to her oozing confidence, a quip on the edge of his tongue and warmth burning in his gaze. But for now, as Liz isolates herself, finds every and any excuse to avoid his presence, keeps him at arm’s length with growing desperation, Raymond Reddington keeps his distance, and Elizabeth desperately tries to suffocate the guilt that blooms in her chest at the _hurt_ that flashes across his features, a ripple of it through the meadow of his eyes.

There is hope that he realises why she is detaching herself from his ever reaching grasp, that the terror that is swarming her insides, isn’t terror at all, but a nervousness, an apprehension that the emotion Red is eliciting for her, this all encompassing _affection_ that is now bleeding into her gaze, the breaths he causes to catch in her throat, may lead to _oh so much more_.

This distance is tormenting, _agonising_ , but Liz is steadfast. It keeps her awake at night, her mind whirling, _burning_ , because if Liz were to spill her secret, if she were to press her words to the delicate flesh of his lips and set herself _afire_ for Raymond Reddington, the danger it would bring, the sheer _violence_ that would hound them across the planet, would be at a cost too great.

Because if she were to love Raymond Reddington, and he were to love her in return, there is no situation where he wouldn’t put himself to the sword before allowing Elizabeth Keen to come to harm.

The thought alone is enough to have her turning her back on him, facing the bar, sucking a breath between her clenched teeth. A man of such influence, a man of such raw _power_ , and yet utterly self-sacrificing, not a shred of self-preservation riddled through the complexity of his being.

It is a terrifying thought, that she could be Raymond Reddington’s ruin.

And it fills her with the overwhelming urge to escape, to _flee_ from this beautiful ball, to shed the striking gown form her being, and skirt away from his ever-knowing gaze and find sanctuary in her apartment, in the solid four walls of her home and the soft embrace of her mattress.

She should have known he would sense her intentions, should have known that he would materialise behind her, head tilted at an angle as she breathes deeply, collects herself, and then tumbles entirely into a maelstrom as she turns to meet his gaze, mere inches away. It doesn’t go without notice that he has positioned himself between her and the exit, one arm splayed across the bar, the other hanging by his side, crystal tumbler in his grasp.

“Leaving so soon, Lizzie?” He asks, and she can see the mischief gleaming in his eyes, can see it in the way his tongue rolls along the inside of his cheek, bottom lip caught between crooked teeth.

A flare of indignation ripples through her at what is seemingly the arrogance of _the criminal_ , the suave confidence of the _Concierge of Crime_ , teasing her, playing at a _game_. Except, there is something cautious about the way he holds himself, almost as if he is uncertain, wary, of her volatile nature as of late. An exhaustion clings to him, weariness woven through the green of his eyes, the hint of purple developing beneath. It turns the rigidity of her spine soft.

“The evening has been lovely, Red,” she comments, feeling that ever traitorous smile develop over her features, “but, I think it’s best if I leave now.”

“Why?”

The question stumps her, his eyes roaming over her face as she searches for an answer, tongue running along the ridges of her teeth as anxiety flutters in her chest, lungs feeling tight. An admission will pass between her lips, will have to be forthcoming as he looks at her with such open earnest.

“You know why,” she whispers, and tears prickle at the corner of her eyes, her lip catching between her teeth as she attempts to quell the emotion threatening to boil over. There is a spark in his eyes, and he straightens himself from where he leant against the bar, reaches out and grasps her hand, runs his thumb across the delicate skin of her knuckles. She can feel the callous there, a callous formed from the rub of his weapon over the many years of carrying.

“Lizzie, _please stay_ ,” it’s quiet and whispered and meant just for her, and yet, Liz feels herself shaking her head, a watery smile aimed his way.

“I have to go.”

She turns to flee, to hightail away from his impenetrable gaze, subtlety sweeping the train of her dress into her free hand and taking a step forwards, breathing out anxious energy in a shuddering sigh, his fingers still tangled amongst her own, held fast. Sadness is creeping over Red’s expression, he watches her steadily, as if calculating her pathetic attempt at collection, her juvenile effort to escape her emotions. It causes empathy to cloud his eyes, to smooth his thumb across her knuckles one last time. A moment of peace, of something like _understanding_ flowing between them, until a jovial voice is booming behind her,

“Raymond!” And it amazes her, how quickly the emotion shutters from his features, how quickly his persona drops around him, cloaks him in a way his tuxedo cannot, “Who is this lovely creature?”

There is a moment, a beat, where she thinks of dropping his hand, the darkness of the evening beckoning to her, an escape, but this is _Red_ , and he is still looking at her, his eyes soft, smile so _sure_ , that for a moment, Liz is willing to pretend.

To pretend that this is what they could be, that her hand in his is standard, the _usual_.

“Anthony!” Red exclaims, all indulgence and endearing smile, she can feel the warmth of his palm as it ghosts down the exposed flesh of her shoulders to rest on her lower back with a heat that _sears_ , “This is a close friend of mine, Elizabeth.”

It is brittle, _strained_ , the smile that is gashed across her features, a sort of _shame_ riddling through her being at his words, common-sense swept up in a hurricane of embarrassment and mortification. He must feel the straightening of her spine, the indignation bristling beneath her skin, because his hand drops to his side, and he takes an idle step away, his focus wavering between the man before him and the swell of emotion awash Liz’s features.

His fingers are still tangled with her own.

There is no fairness in this, in her resentment of him, in the way his words take root in her chest, leech sorrow and frustration into her lungs, choke out the steady beat of heart. Red is following Liz’s lead without question, keeps his emotions at bay, suffocates and extinguishes the _love_ that burns so fiercely in his eyes as she battles internally, shutters her own _wants_ , hurts them both with her confusion, her _fear_.

“I’m sorry, it’s nice to meet you,” she manages to croak out, voice scratchy, a tremble, “But I was just leaving.”

The other gentleman nods, a slight frown taking residency in his features, before Red is stepping forwards, blocking Anthony from her line of sight. She can see the words tapping at the back of his teeth, the sentences smoothed over his tongue, a debate tucked into the bottom corner of his lips.

Emotion is clambering its way up her oesophagus, threatening to consume, and he must take pity on her, must see the distress clawing its way across her face, in the tremble of her lips, the shimmer of her eyes, because with one last squeeze he is dropping her hand from his grasp.

“Call me when you get home,” he asks of her, and all she can do is nod, before brushing past him and out into the drizzly evening.

.

_30th of March, 12.01am_

They are waiting for her in her apartment, drawn by Reddington’s wealth, rookie-like in their behaviour, amateurs out of their depth.

She can see it in the way they nervously shift on their feet, feel it in the way they threaten her, _hurt her_ , as if they don’t understand the peril haunting their souls with each bruise.

It is there in the tremble of their voices, their bickering. If it wasn’t for the knife, they brandished so liberally, Liz would have scoffed at their incompetent attempt at drawing information from her.

If they had been professional, they never would have risked killing her.

_Red was going to eat them alive_.

.

_30th of March, 12.14am_

Dembe meets his gaze in the rear-view mirror, watches steadily as Raymond presses the phone to his cheek, the hazel of his eyes bleeding concern as it rings and rings and _rings_. The plastic beneath Red’s fingers _creaks_ in protest, the edge of the device cutting into the soft flesh of his temple, only to be torn away in frustration when the calls ends, no answer.

She should have arrived home, she should have called by now.

“ _Drive_.”

The acceleration rocks against him, presses him into the soft leather of the chair. Rain splatters against the window screen, causes the lights above to _bleed_. A rhythmic pattern he beats upon his thigh with his trigger finger, in time with the thundering of his heart.

_She should have called by now_.

.

_2nd of April, 3.56pm_

He is there, when she comes to.

She is entirely certain it isn’t the first time she has awoken, but during times of crisis, when a body attempts to stich itself, to nestles cells back together that were so savagely torn apart, the mind tends to wonder, tends to turn inwards in its delirium.

Elizabeth Keen is certain that if she had woken, if she had been _sane_ , she would have told Red to shower, to go home and _change_.

Alas, with blurry vision, a dry throat, and a cough, she wakes. The agony across her abdomen is muted, a dull throb in the back of her mind as she twists her neck, feels the tubes and wires strapped and tangled around her prone frame tension with the movement. Wildness is etched and carved throughout her movement, an animal caged and scared, writhing against its restraints.

“ _Lizzie_ ,” she hears him say, urgent and firm, “Lizzie, stop, I’m here, Lizzie, _I’m here_.”

It is enough to make her fall still, the timbre of his voice coating the frayed ends of her nerves, to soothe the instant panic. And yet, his words are almost enough to set her alight all over again, because even as the adrenaline ebbs, she can feel the humiliation heating her cheeks, the mortification that he is so desperately reassuring her of his presence curdling in her chest.

She wonders how many times she woke screaming his name.

In her line of vision now, he presses her gently back into the pillows, pillows that are softer than any cushion found in the American Healthcare system ought to be, and meets her gaze. The jade of his eyes, the vibrant green that had watched her from across the ballroom, are stormy, _tortured_. Fields of blooming purple are swiped along his cheekbones. The salt and pepper stubble reaching across his jawline glints in the low light of the room, his skin is pasty, _pale_ , streaks of _gore_ marring his cheeks.

At this proximity, she can _smell_ the blood on him, it’s cloying and _sickly_ , and when he pulls away, a jagged and harsh movement, as if he has forgotten how to be fluid and _calm_ , she realises that he is still dressed in his tuxedo, the bowtie and jacket discarded, but the cotton of his dress-shirt still clings to his biceps, crusty and torn. The blood has dried now, has caused the material to become stiff, rigid and _rusty_.

“ _Red_ ,” she croaks, barely having the chance to reach out to him, before he is grasping at her hand. Her blood mars his forearms, is caught beneath his fingernails and in the creases of his knuckles.

And tears, _tears_ are spilling from her eyes. His fingers are skating along the skin of her forearms, gentle and reverent, and his breaths are shuddering through his frame, and all Lizzie can do is cry into his embrace, body _heaving_ with terror and _relief_ , her wound _screaming_ with each sob wracking through her ribcage, tensing the tortured muscles of her stomach.

“Lizze, I’m so sorry,” he whispers, hand reaching up to smooth the fuzziness of her hair, “ _God_ , I am so sorry.”

She wants to reassure him, wants to curl into his chest and whisper promises against the beating flesh of his heart. This is the way she would want it, would throw herself into peril a thousand times over to keep him from self-destruction. Were she to speak aloud, were she to once more pledge herself to him and his safety, stare teary-eyed into his soul and swear a promise _he does not want_ , she knows she would be met with refusal, a firm _never do that again_ in the back of an FBI cruiser.

So instead, she sucks in a breath, reluctantly withdraws from his embrace, and offers him a watery smile.

“It’s okay,” she whispers, swipes at the tears that continue to roll down her cheeks, stifles the sob that sticks to the back of her throat as Red leans forwards, presses a kiss to her forehead, lingers for a time, before pulling away only to rest his cheek where his lips had seared her only a moment earlier.

Silence lapses around them, the steady beep of Liz’s pulse lulling the anxiety that plagues the both of them, reaches down their throats to tangle through their intestines, a treacherous thing tightening lungs, staining blood.

“I know for a fact that Dembe would have insisted that you get changed,” she says into the quiet, means for her tone to carry some humour, _teasing_ , but it falls flats. Perhaps the medication that is working through her system is dulling her judgement, muting her mind.

An indentation appears on the bottom of his lip, his teeth sinking into the soft fleshy tissue as he glances away from her gaze, rubs without thought at the bloodstain stretching across his middle. Briefly, his eyes squint, throat moving as he swallows past an emotion, recalling a particularly difficult memory, and Liz feels the guilt swell inside, feels it blossoming beneath her tongue, an ache stretching and writhing in her ribcage.

Red doesn’t reply, rolls his tongue around his mouth, and stares towards the door, shoulders tense and rounded. It is unlike him, to be this dishevelled, this vulnerable. There is a tremble to his hands, a sheen coating the jade of his eyes, something both desperate and _feral_ taking residency in his features.

Terrified she has seen on him before, trapped behind a blood-splattered pane, an impenetrable glass fortress, with a five-letter password and a resolute Ressler between them. The terror, the tick beneath his eye, the thin press of his lips, the _grief_ in his expression, had quickly succumbed to desperation, manifested into a kind of rage and _power_ , a _determination_ ¸ that had him kissing Ressler’s temple with the steel barrel of a Glock.

And his voice had been so certain, his smile so _sad_.

_R-O-M-E-O_

Terrified she has seen on him before, forced onto a surgical table with the sting of jet fuel singeing her nostrils, writhing beneath the hands of torturers. His voice had been _strident_ ¸ panicked, and utterly _helpless_. A man so powerful held at ransom by one woman and a knife straying far too close to the delicate skin of her belly. Again, the terror had succumbed to fury, because Reddington was a man of _action_ , a savage seducer of _violence_. A snarl had stretched over his features, gun pressed to his chest, and he’d _lunged_ , the terror dissolving into _murder_.

And then his body perched over hers, his breath against her collarbone.

_Are you okay?_

Normally his terror _succumbs_ , accedes with fiercer emotions, _actions_ , but as Red sits across from her now, covered in her blood _still_ , she realises that in this situation, prone as she is in this hospital bed with her flesh knitting back together, Red has _no target_. There are leads, to be certain, the men that had destroyed the sanctuary of her apartment are being tracked, _hunted_ , but Reddington is not leading the charge. His features are crumbled with grief, _fear,_ and not the savage _snarl_ of a hunt.

The terror has smoothed into the creases of his brow, bloomed in the green of his irises, it is there in the smudges of _black_ beneath his eyes, lurking in the corner of his lips. A tremble buzzes through his being, shivers through his fingertips, and Liz can see that the terror has _settled_ into Raymond Reddington, carved a home into his chest and _rested_ there.

Sitting here, in this bed, tucked away somewhere safe, somewhere secret, with fresh wounds and an aching heart, Liz stares at Red and realisation dawns, stretches through her consciousness with a flash of clarity. The crisp linen swaddled around her bunches in her fingertips, several of the copious machines adorning the room, rigged to her body, begin to _wail_ as her heartbeat thunders onwards, her pulse positively _roaring_ through her eardrums.

She wonders if she had come to the same conclusion in her delirium, if she woke screaming his name for the same reason it is now lodged in her throat, frantic and _forlorn_.

The space she had forcefully wedged between them, insisted upon, was to keep him safe, to save him from himself, but now, _now_ , she can see the resolution riddled throughout his posture, can see it in the slope of his shoulders.

“You can’t leave,” she breathes, her eyes wide, shining with unshed tears.

“Lizzie.”

It sounds broken, and he is looking at her as if he _is_ , eyes red-rimmed. His throat is bobbing with emotion, his knuckles white with tension, fingers tangled together and pressing into his lap. There was a time when Liz knows he would have been composed, a mask slipped over his features, an air of indifference in his tone of voice, merely a business transaction, the cold suave criminal.

“ _Red_ ,” and that was closer to a sob, “ _You can’t leave me, please don’t leave me_.”

She is begging now, and there are tears slipping down her cheeks, there are tears slipping down _his_. With stretching fingers, she reaches for him, feels as it tugs at her delicate flesh, causes her to wince. And yet, he remains unobtainable, unmoving. Liz is trapped here, a hostage to her wounds and the soft mattress beneath her.

“I’m sorry, Lizzie,” he says, and it’s sincere, he _means it_ , and there is nothing Liz can do, helpless, as he stands, looks down at her with such _heartbreak_.

“Red, don’t,” and it’s quiet, shattered, as he takes a step closer to her bed and presses a kiss to her forehead.

Her arms wrap around him, a futile attempt in her weakened state to grasp him, _hold him_. Scrabbling, her fingers clutch at his shirt, grip and _tighten_ , her breaths uneven from pain, agony, from both her wound and her throbbing, _aching heart_.

His tears are slipping into her hair, across her brow, and his lips are still pressed to her forehead. A hand is tangled in her tresses, and she can’t help the sobs, the wretched _sobs_ , that are torn from her throat, coughing from her abdomen.

“Goodbye, sweetheart,” and no amount of begging will stop him from pulling away from her clutches, no amount of screaming is enough to halt his departure. The machines surrounding her are _howling_ , and as Red steps over the threshold, medical staff are brushing past him, hurrying into the room like a swarm of bees, immediately checking her vitals, attempting to soothe her as she thrashes in her bed, screams herself hoarse.

The nurses have blocked Red from her view, are now fiddling with her IV, upping her pain medication, sending her unwillingly back into darkness as she batters against the drowsiness that begins to take root. Her eyes are slipping closed and her speech is slurring, screams lodging, withering, _dying_ in her throat.

Blackness laces her vision, and the last thought Liz has, the last thing she notices, is that Red never even looks back.

.

_4th of April, 5.37am_

Wrapped around a crystal tumbler, his knuckles are smeared with black and blue, scabbed with rusty crimson. The plaster that had given way beneath his fists, the wall just outside of Elizabeth’s room, would have been patched up, replastered and painted before Lizzie ever had the opportunity to witness his destruction, his loss of control.

The sun rises upon the mountainside, the snow glistening in its brilliance, and he is miles away form her now, countries and continents, entire _oceans_ yawning between them. And yet, he still sees her in his dreams, the _nightmares_ that plague him, haunt him from slumber.

Always there is blood, always she is screaming.

Always, Lizzie is _dying_.

And when he wakes, when he wakes from these memories, he is now alone.

And all he can hear is,

_Please don’t leave me_.

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you think! I kind of hate leaving them sad, so i am definitely considering adding one last chapter. I hope you enjoyed the read, and please feel free to leave a comment! Thank you!


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